


An' Liquor Guid to Fire His Bluid

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Friendship/Love, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:52:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Rarely have I seen him deeply intoxicated, and rarely does he choose to become so.  But when he does, it is a gorgeous sight.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	An' Liquor Guid to Fire His Bluid

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Robbie Burns. Prompt was "A Screaming Orgasm" at [Come At Once](http://come-at-once.livejournal.com), so I went from cocktails to liquor to beautiful drunks. No beta, American spellings (sorry), written in under 12 hours.

Sherlock Holmes is a beautiful drunk. He is not a man made for moderation, and I have seen him flirting with the extremes of many a dangerous activity: not eating, his cocaine use, the physical risks of his profession. But he knows his limits intimately, and though I worry myself about his nutrition or his denial of an addiction, he is admittedly very astute. He approaches alcohol with considerably more care, but with the same attention to his own reaction. Rarely have I seen him deeply intoxicated, and rarely does he choose to become so. But when he does, it is a gorgeous sight.

I can see it in his eyes of an evening with nothing better to do, often at the conclusion of a case, incited by the urge to celebrate. He hands me a glass and pours me a finger or two of brandy, and we sit across the fire from one another, talking, reliving the adventure, rehashing the details. I beg him to tell me how he noticed the clues, and when, and what line of thought took him from ignorance to brilliance. He smiles, demures, and leads me along through his deduction over and over, flattered by my attention. He gets up for another glass of brandy, but I know what he would prefer. I open the sideboard and bring out the bottle of single malt Scotch, old enough to be one of his Irregulars.

“Oh, Watson, you absolutely spoil me,” Holmes says, and accepts my offer to pour.

Our second glass is usually accompanied by a discussion of science and anatomy. Holmes often takes advantage of my medical background, though he is a formidable anatomist in his own right, and I take great pride in being able to assist so clever a man in his work. He tells me I am indispensable, and I blush.

With the third glass, we move on to philosophy. By now Holmes is quite loose in his posture, sliding down his armchair. His dressing gown slips up his arms as he gesticulates lazily, and the fine bones of his wrists are exposed. My mouth is dry. He crosses his legs at the ankle, props his feet on the fireplace grate, and rolls his head to the side to look at me across the distance of our chairs. His storm gray eyes are unfocused, his pupils dilated, and I could drown in them.

He becomes almost poetic at this point, expounding on the cruelty of the world, the human drive to hurt one another, the inescapable desire to succeed and damn the cost. I love it when he swears. He sounds so elegant when he does it, so casual, never fumbling or embarrassed by its severity. He is not vulgar, not crass, and he uses his words in so specific and intentional a way that I cannot help but admire it.

By the fourth glass, the Scotch is dwindling, the street outside is empty, and the house is quiet. I have listened to Mrs Hudson cleaning below us, finishing her evening, and going to bed. It is Holmes and I alone now, and it is this knowledge, along with the great quantity of fine liquor in my blood, that gives me courage. I shift myself from armchair to settee, feigning nonchalance, and he gives me a secret, knowing sort of smile. He knows what I am after.

He joins me, sliding in under my casually outflung arm, and sets his glass aside with a puddle of gold lingering at the bottom. He touches my knee, lays his palm on my thigh, and fits himself to my side. Our conversation slows to a trickle, and for a while we sit in silence, side by side. I relish the press of the ball of his shoulder to the front of mine, of his leg against my leg, his arm against my ribs. I inch my hand off the back of the settee and around his further arm, and he smiles down into his lap. Then he turns his face up to mine, and I can smell the Scotch on his breath.

Our first kiss of the evening is a soft one, almost hesitant, his mouth pliant under mine. He sighs, lips parting, and I tilt my head to deepen the kiss. My hand, which once held my glass, is now empty, and I fill it with the curve of his cheek. The faint rasp of stubble under my palm makes me suck in a breath, filled with wonder and joy, and I feel him smile. He dips his tongue between my lips, licking at mine own, and I chase him back with a noise of pleasure. He tastes of Scotch and tobacco and warm desire, smoky and rich with a bit of a bite. I bite back, nipping his lip, my kisses growing more aggressive. He clutches my lapel and opens his mouth to my assault with a moan.

We part, breathing quick and shallow, and Holmes’s intent gaze meets mine. I never doubt him in moments like this: this is never a mistake. It may take the lubrication of the bottle, but that is why I buy the expensive ones. The color is high in his cheeks, his eyes shining, and his smile returns. I kiss him once more, softly, and he lets go of my tie, smoothes down the front of my waistcoat.

“Watson,” he says quietly, “should you like to adjourn?”

I am feeling wicked tonight. I shake my head. His eyebrows go up.

“Oh,” he says, smirking, “I am always so glad I was right about you.”

“Right about what?” I ask, beginning to unbutton his collar for him. He tips his head back, showing the long line of his neck. I am unable to resist temptation, and lean in to press open-mouthed kisses to his throat.

“That you are a fellow who enjoys the thrill of danger,” he murmurs.

“Well, yes,” I say against his collarbone, “but I hardly think the middle of the night in a locked flat is a dangerous place to engage in anything like this.”

“You’re much too sober,” he complains, pushing me away and unbuttoning his shirt down to his navel, “if you can reason like that.”

I part the lapels of his dressing gown and slide my hand across bare skin, tucking my fingers around the curve of his narrow ribs. “Be quiet,” I tell him. “I’m as sober as I’d like to be, and as drunk as I choose.”

His rippling laugh makes me smile, and I put my mouth to his neck again, kissing my way down to the tightened peak of his nipple. He stifles a gasp when I lick it, and slides his hand into my hair to hold me in place. His skin is clean and salty, and always so sensitive. With one arm still wrapped around his shoulders I can pull him to me, and he arches his back when I scrape him gently with my teeth.

“Christ,” he whispers, “that’s nice.”

I pull his shirt tails out of his trousers and slip my hand between his thighs where he is hard and waiting. His hips jerk up into the pressure of my palm, and I squeeze him firmly. The dual stimulation on nipple and cock makes him squirm, his breath coming short. He fumbles to return the favor, clever fingers finding their way into my lap, and I can’t help the groan of appreciation that escapes me when he thumbs the head of my prick through my trousers.

He complains when I pull away, sliding off the settee to the floor, but he shuts up right quick when I push his knees apart. He undoes my collar and necktie while I open his trousers, and he lifts his hips when I yank them down. Together we get his trousers and drawers down his legs and off over my shoulder, and I take a second to pull off his socks as well. He laughs at me, head back against the settee, and I curl my hands around his bare ankles before skimming them up his legs to hook behind his knees. I pull him to the edge of the settee until his arse is almost off the edge and admire my prize. His prick is long and stiff and ruddy against his pale belly, and he shifts his hips eagerly which makes it wag back and forth. He snorts again, grinning, and curls his fingers once more in my hair.

“Your leg’s all right?” he asks, looking down the length of his body at me, and I nod.

“It’ll do.”

“Tell me if it hurts,” he says. “I’m not going to be accountable for you giving yourself a cramp and then whinging about it for days on end.”

“I’ll show you whinging,” I say, shoving his knees apart and sucking him down in one go. He shouts, claps a hand over his mouth, and I release him to slap against his stomach. He swears at me, glaring, and I take him in hand. I slip my tongue ‘round and ‘round his leaking crown, keeping my eyes on his, until he is panting, open-mouthed and desperate, hips hitching up, begging me to go on. Then I slip him back into my mouth and descend until my moustache brushes the dark, coarse curls of hair at his groin. I hear him moan, whisper my name, and I pull back again to where he just parts my lips. Then down once more, swallowing, and up, over and over. The hand in my hair tightens but never demands; he holds on for dear life but does not command me. Not here.

My mouth grows numb and my throat grows thick; my head swims. My cock feels huge in my trousers, trapped as it is, as my desire mounts along with Holmes’s. He squirms and sighs, curses and moans, and when I look at him my heart races. He is still in his shirt and dressing gown, but they hang open so that the blush that extends down his chest is visible. His nipples are stiff, and his ribcage heaves like the bellows. He watches me, lips parted, his eyes fixed upon my face. Both his hands cradle my head now, his blunt fingernails scratching gently at my scalp, and I hear myself groan.

When I pull off to catch my breath, he pets my neck, my aching jaw, my temples. I frig him slowly and kiss the insides of his thighs, and he whispers, “Oh, John.”

“Do you want it like this?” I ask.

“Please,” he says, “don’t stop. Your mouth is too magnificent to turn down.”

I blush, flattered and aroused, and he rubs his thumb across my lower lip. I lick the tip of his thumb and watch a shudder take his frame. I bend once more to my task.

This time, he nudges his left leg over my right shoulder, his bare heel digging into my back, and I wrestle myself out of my waistcoat. His heel strokes the back of my shoulder, and draws me closer. I can feel his body tensing, his thighs and arse flexing, pushing his hips up rhythmically. His grip on me tightens, and in turn I hold him more securely, my thumbs digging into his soft belly above the crests of his hips. His gasps have sound in them, unashamed and appreciative, rising in pitch. I wish I could quiet him, and I wish he could be louder. I want him to shout aloud when he comes, to cry out his joy to the Heavens. I pray that he does not disturb the house, that we will never be suspected or interrupted.

He clutches me, groaning through his teeth, and I feel his hips rise and rise, clear off the seat. His cock swells in my mouth, nearly choking me, and I hold on as he reaches his peak with a long, drawn-out moan. He thrashes and I anchor him, tears running from my eyes, my whole being given over to his pleasure. He sobs my name, shuddering, and finally goes still. His leg slips off my shoulder. His prick slips from my mouth. I wipe the back of my hand across my lips and plant a kiss on the inside of his knee as I sit back on my heels. My prick throbs.

“Come here,” he says, reaching for me and patting the seat beside him. His eyes are unfocused, half-shut, and his smile is lopsided. “God, you are glorious.”

I admit I kiss him rather fiercely, and he wastes no time in opening my trousers up and pulling out my cock. It is huge in his fist, standing straight up, and he stifles a giggle. When he squeezes me, a drop of fluid wells up from my slit and spills over. Holmes breathes out slowly against my collarbone, transfixed. Then he sweeps it away with his thumb, and I jerk in surprise.

“Steady on,” he murmurs, stroking me slowly. I close my eyes.

Holmes’s hands are nimble and strong, and he can play me like his violin, coaxing out shivers of pleasure with the most minute movements. He kisses my neck, the hinge of my jaw, and tightens his grip. I cling to him, as before, my arms around his shoulders. I know he is watching my face, and so I let him see the way he affects me, biting my lip, furrowing my brow. He twists his wrist on the next stroke and I gasp at the jolt of pleasure that thuds up my spine. I hear him laugh.

Then he says, “Lie back, my dear,” and slips out of my grasp. He urges me backwards until I am stretched out along the settee. Now his eyes are alight with anticipation, and I submit to his will with a sigh. I reach over my head and grasp the arm of the settee, spreading my thighs and baring myself to him. I am still mostly dressed, my cock poking out of the unfastened placket of my trousers. The drape of his dressing gown hides his lap from me, but he is still mostly naked.

He curves his spine, bending until he can touch his lips to my swollen cock head, and the flicker of his tongue makes me writhe. He licks me until I am pleading for more, and then opens his mouth. He cannot take me in very deep, bent double as he is, and his technique is necessarily a messy one. Soon my prick is wet from root to crown with his saliva, and his hand glides easily up and down, meeting his lips on every other pass. Pleasure is coalescing, hot and insistent, low in my pelvis. My bollocks feel full and heavy, and just when I am on the verge of begging him to touch them he does, taking them in his other hand and massaging them against the root of my cock.

“Watson,” he says suddenly, pulling away and leaving me cold and bereft. “Would you like my fingers?”

“Yes,” I gasp, “yes, oh please yes.”

He slips two fingers into his mouth and sucks them quickly, and pulls my trousers down with the other hand. He takes me between his lips again, and as he does so he slides his first finger inside my body.

The intrusion is a welcome one, and I do not bother to stifle the moan of satisfaction that escapes from my throat. The three sensations-- hand, mouth, and fingers-- are building me quickly to my peak, and I do not know how long I can last.

I almost don’t notice the addition of the second finger, but that the increased pressure makes me squirm in delight. Holmes makes a muffled noise and begins to stroke me inside, working his fingers in and out, mirroring the motion with the up-and-down of his other hand and his splendid mouth. His touch skates across my prostate, and I tense suddenly, desperate to stave off orgasm. He must feel it, but instead of letting me regain control he rubs it again, more firmly. I am starting to shake.

He moans around my cock, frigging me faster, fucking me shallowly with his fingers, and I am panting with desperation. I want more, I want it to go on, but I can’t hold myself back. The wave rises, taking me with it, and I gasp a warning. Holmes only grips me tighter, encouraging me, and rubs me against his wet, hot tongue. His face is creased in concentration, and the sight of Sherlock Holmes with my prick in his mouth has never failed to send me over the edge. 

I come with a cry, eyes squeezed shut, trembling all over, my blood singing in my ears. Holmes works me through it with practiced ease, stroking me firmly, swallowing without complaint, and keeping his fingers buried deep inside me. I shudder with the pleasure as he draws it out, and finally I have to push him away as the flashes of sensation begin to take on an alarming sharpness.

Holmes eases his fingers out and wipes them on his shirt, and then pushes my legs out straight and climbs on top of me. He rests his cheek against my wounded shoulder and tucks his hands under my back. I curl my arms around him, pressing grateful kisses into his soft hair. He breathes out on a sigh, squeezing my ribs with his elbows. His hips are lower than mine, and he fits nicely between my thighs, his belly against my sensitive prick.

We are silent for a long time as I catch my breath, and then I realize Holmes is dozing, and snoring faintly.

“Holmes,” I whisper. He lifts his head, blinking.

“What?”

“We cannot fall asleep like this,” I warn.

He frowns. His hair is falling in his face. I push it away. “No,” he says petulantly, and nuzzles once more against my breastbone. He kisses my fingertips, nips one, and I wrap him once more in an embrace.

If I let us fall asleep here, we will almost certainly be discovered. Sherlock Holmes’s bare arse is, I imagine, nearly the last thing our landlady would prefer to see in the cold light of morning. The very last, I am certain, is the estimable Doctor stretched out beneath him.

Just a few more minutes.


End file.
